a waste of time to second-guess your choices on the battlefield. Once made, they can only be acted upon, analyzed, but there’s no point to regret.”
“This isn’t war.”
“We’re always at war in this world.”
Connley stepped closer to her. “You don’t need to be at war here, with me.”
She kissed him, but he tilted his mouth away, instead putting their foreheads together. “Not until we both want it.”
Confusion washed through her, followed by a betraying sliver of relief. “I wish I could carve her out of my heart.”
Her husband turned from her, going to the window she’d abandoned. He said, “I used to have Ashling to whisper comfort to me, to promise me undivided devotion. Her love was consuming, and possessive. She did not share—that’s why she tormented you. I know she was terrible, I’ve known for a long while, and it didn’t matter. I still love her. Even now, I miss the tenor of her voice in the wind. I feel unfinished, unraveled. Her love, her voice, knotted my spirit, and now …”
Hotspur was an ass. She’d been the one to take the ghost away from him, and never asked how he felt. She’d been too glad the ghost had vanished. And that her husband pretended to be fine.
Connley continued, “Who would I be if I stopped loving Ashling, who made me? If I stopped loving Rowan, who made me, too? Or anyone I have loved. Haven’t they all made me?”
Grimacing, Hotspur took his hand.
Wind blew in at them, carrying a bittersweet scent off the Tarinnish. It hissed, words jagged and whistling: love—end—life itself—stars and salt and … Hotspur nearly understood.
But Conn blinked slowly and said carefully, as if tasting the flavor of the words before letting them go, “It isn’t the nature of love to end. Love is intrinsic to itself. Like stars, or saltwater. Without stars there is no fate; without salt, no sea. And like fate, love must exist once it is born. Like the sea, love surrounds us. It is active, it creates, pushes us, drags us together or apart. Changes us with its inexorable motion. But because it cannot end, love may change. It can turn dark, it can rot or transform, never losing its power. We should strive never to let our love corrupt itself, or us.”
“Is that a prophecy, witch?” Hotspur whispered, uncertain, making light of the dire pronouncement.
He blinked again, and shuddered.
Silence stretched between them as Connley’s lashes fluttered in confusion, and finally he said, “It is what Innis Lear wants us to know.”
CHARM
Lionis, early winter
WINTER IN LIONIS reminded Charm of home, despite the frigid air and snow that bit cold against his cheeks. He’d had to give up his familiar wardrobe and dress himself in the restricting wool trousers of men here, hard boots, layers of linen, wool tunic, and even massive coats with fur when night fell or the wind cut from a steely gray sky.
He tried to explain to Vatta Bolinbroke why this season reminded him of the Third Kingdom as they walked through the elaborately fashioned royal gardens. “It is the barrenness, the unforgiving lines,” he said. The younger woman huddled close to him, one arm tucked against his side, resting on his arm. Her elaborate cloak included a soft hood that pinned into her hair, keeping it tight over her ears and covering her neck, but allowed heavy brown curls to spill out, framing her flushed cheeks. As she listened, she smiled and her big brown eyes never left his face. Luckily, they walked with excruciating slowness, and he could hold her aloft if she tripped upon the snowy path.
“But surely the sounds and smells are so different,” she offered, “distinguishing Aremoria from the Third Kingdom.”
“Yes, but when I arrived here it all was so lush, so full of green, and now the winter has deadened it all. That, perhaps, is what makes me miss home more than true similarity.” Charm wondered whether, if Prince Hal were here, this conversation would flourish instead of fall flat before an altar of specificity. He liked Vatta, for she was wise and serious beyond her years, and friendly. She held herself with all the reserve of Celedrix, though had none of Tigir’s enthusiasm or Hal’s imagination. By description, perhaps, she would appear more regal, more suited to inherit the throne than her elder sister, but in Charm’s opinion, she was most ideally fit for advisor and supporter. A queen needed imagination and a hint of daring. Vatta could not risk